


Five Times John Has Sex That Hurts Him and One Time It Heals Him Instead

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Canon Compliant up to S3, Closeted John Watson, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Parts of S4 referenced, Self-Hatred, most of s4 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 04:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10936704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: Two things have to be in place for John to have what he wants: First, he has toknowwhat he wants, and second, he has to believe he deserves it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [ shamelessmash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessmash/pseuds/shamelessmash) for superfast beta including very, very gratifying squee at no extra charge.

He was almost there, one week to go. Harry’s wedding first, at the registry office, and then away. _At last_. There were too many traps here, too many ways he could go wrong. Lately he’d been feeling like every step he took was a misstep, and this after having been so careful for so long. _One week to go._ One more week of hiding.

They didn’t want him to go, his parents. They’d liked his last girlfriend, more than the rest. They’d hoped that she’d be the one who would shake him out of his crazy ideas. (“The army, John? For heaven’s sake, _why_?”) Had been disappointed but not surprised when she had joined the ranks of the women who had too much self-respect to stay with John Watson for long. (“You’re just...married to your work,” one of them said, kindly. “Go back to all your soldier boys,” said another, less kindly.) 

They just wanted him to get his priorities right. Get them _straight_. They were sure it was going to happen before he actually shipped out. He couldn’t really mean it, they thought.

Even now, a week before the wedding, Harry had tried again to work on him, to talk him out of it. At their behest. 

“They just want what’s best for you, Johnny.”

“Yeah, Harry, that’s what they wanted for you, too.”

“All right, but I’m only gay. _You’re_ going to fucking Afghanistan.”

“So?”

“So being gay isn’t going to kill me.”

“I’ll be fine.”

But she didn’t leave off, and several drinks later when she finally _did_ storm away, John was left at the bar wondering dispassionately if this time he’d finally burned that bridge.

So it was that he and Clara were drinking together, but the rest was a little...blurry. It was just him and Clara and at some stage they’d started...this. Whatever _this_ was.

(John knew exactly what _this_ was, but naming it was like admitting it was happening.)

“Johnny…” Her voice was soft, enticing. Her hands were _everywhere._

“I don’t think, I don’t think we should…” He’d been drinking. Had she? This was, this was...

“Come on, Johnny. I’ve seen you looking.” Her breath hot on his neck.

“Yeah, but…” _God,_ that felt good. “I, I, _oh._ ” Her mouth, sweet, soft on his. A broad swipe of tongue—wet—that should have been messy, should have put him off, but was actually just the right side of filthy. “ _Oh…”_

“That’s right, _oh._ See? I knew we’d be great together.” Same soft mouth, down his neck, hands kneading his arse. Insistent.

“But, but…” There was something he should say. Her hands, her hands… “I think…”

“I think you should stop worrying, Johnny. How does this feel?” Warm press of round body, hips tucked up against his. 

_Ah._ It felt bloody amazing. “Bloody amazing. But—”

“There you are, then.”

“But—but _Harry._ ” That was it. (That was what?) He was already hard. 

“It’s a one-off, Johnny. She doesn’t have to know. You’re leaving anyway.” She did something complicated with her tongue in his mouth and her hand on his prick - fingernails through denim. _Oh, jesus._ That was incredible. What had he been talking about? “Consider this my stag night.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t what? Don’t like girls?” Clara laughed, not very gently. “You’ve got an eye for the lads, Johnny, which you think is a big secret, but I think I still have a thing or two you might enjoy.” And she took his hand and pressed it to her breast, licking back into his mouth at the same time. 

After that, it was...well. John was drunk and conflicted, and not able to do much more than try to keep up. Clara was persistent in her efforts, though, and strident in seeking her pleasure. She got herself off on John’s fingers and John’s cock while John tried valiantly to uphold his end of the proceedings. 

He almost didn’t come. He felt his erection begin to flag more than once, but somehow the idea that he might not be able to perform filled him with horror. _She’ll know, she’ll know. She knows._ Having made the decision—had he?—to sleep with his sister’s fiancée ahead of their wedding and his deployment, he was dimly determined to go through with it, and make a proper job of it. 

Just then, though, he opened his eyes, and got a full view. Clara, her yellow hair an impossible tangle, her back arched above him, riding his cock with one hand between her legs and the other rolling and pinching her nipple, cresting the wave of another orgasm. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was open and no matter the rights or wrongs of it, she was, in that moment, _glorious._

His cock swelled at the sight and he came, hard, his heart full of a mingling of pleasure, awe and relief.

The shuddering, eclipsing shame didn’t come until later.

***

It would have been miserly to refuse, he thought later, not fooling himself even for a moment. She seemed to want it so badly. He’d just helped her out with her wedding nerves. But she wasn’t wrong, he _had_ been looking. She was absolutely beautiful and why was it _Harry,_ of all people, of the two of them, who had the sense to find a beautiful, intelligent woman and settle down? Harry, he reflected, was one lucky—oh. Except that her beautiful wife had cheated on her just before her wedding. 

_No, Watson, that’s not the only problem._

_Right_. Except that her brother had slept with her wife, just before their wedding. 

He was deployed the following week. Harry didn’t find out until just before he came limping home, leaving him with no place to stay and a phone that nobody wanted anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes some risks he didn't sign up for when he joined the army.

“Watson?” A familiar voice, soft. 

“Sir?” John kept his eyes on the desert sky, didn’t look back to see the tall figure framed in the doorway.

James joined him in the darkness “What are you doing out here? Big day tomorrow, I thought everyone was turning in early.”

“They are. We are. I just—Just thinking, sir.”

“That’s not like you, Watson.”

John did glance up then, in time to catch the slight smile. “Cheers for that, sir.”

A shared silence. James pulled another folding chair up to where John sat. “Thinking of home?”

“Of home—? No—no, sir.” John gave a half-smile. “That’s not—I don’t usually think of home.”

“Nor do I, truth be told. I’m much better suited to being here.” 

“Same.”

“What is it, then?”

More silence. After a long while, John responded with his own question. “Do you not have anyone at home?”

“Not really. No parents, no siblings. Big old house in the country being maintained by a manager. No family.”

John looked down at his hands. “No one...waiting?” 

“No one. Are you trying to put me off, Watson?”

“What?” Startled. “No, sir. Why?”

“Because I asked you what was on your mind, and I don’t for a moment believe that you’re out here staring at the stars wondering about my romantic affiliations.”

James looked at him then, ready to laugh. When John only lifted his face and gazed back at him, the smile faded from his eyes.

Very gently, James said, “Watson…” and John dropped his eyes.

Then James said, “John.”

It wasn’t more than another beat before they reached for each other. That stern face, softening; those deliberate hands, caressing; those remote eyes, pleased...John _needed_ this. Had needed it for so long. To be touched by this untouchable man.

What followed was...furtive. And raw. Harsh, in the dust and sand. There was nothing soft, that night in the desert. Nevertheless, James was tender, during and also afterwards, tucking John back into his clothes, folding his fatigues back into place, making him tidy. James valued neatness. And gentleness, it seemed. He kissed John once more, before stepping away. 

His voice was gruff when he said, “Get some sleep, Watson.” As he might to any man under his command. In his care. 

John found his own voice with some difficulty. “I—yes, sir.” He cleared his throat and moved towards the barracks. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, John,” came the soft voice from the darkness.

***

The next day was a big day, indeed, and long. The longest of John’s life. He whispered, _please, God, let me live_ as he bled into the sand, and in his delirium imagined strong, tidy hands making him safe.

***

Later, James came to see him in the hospital. He stood erect at John’s bedside, and spoke to him. He was... _correct._ In words and demeanour. John was in too much pain to see if there was any warmth behind it.

“You’re going home, Watson.”

“It seems so, sir.” John gritted his teeth. “It’s been an honour serving with you.”

“And with you, Watson.”

There didn’t seem to be much else to say, and James was never one to force words when there weren’t any. In another moment, he would leave, and that would be all.

John’s opportunities for grave risk-taking would soon be at an end. He seized this one while he could. “If you want, sir…”

“Yes, Captain?”

“There could be someone waiting for you now.” He had faced down armed insurgents and left his blood in the sand. He met his commander’s eyes directly.

James met his eye, then looked away for a long moment. When he drew his gaze back up to John’s, his answer was written in his face. He said it anyway. “I’ll be here a long while yet, Watson.”

John closed his eyes. “Understood, sir.”

At that, James hesitated. “It’s just...best not to make any promises. John.”

 _John_. But it was still a _no._ John nodded curtly. He straightened his shoulders, and winced. _I should have stuck with insurgents._

(It didn’t turn out to be very long, before James came home, but John’s emails went unanswered. James valued neatness, after all. Or perhaps he meant it as gentleness. His silence.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's going to want something healthy for a change. Something everyone can agree is good for him.

“Oh! That’s a humpback, I’m sure of it! Look, John, over there!” Sarah, flushed and joyful, grasped his arm and pointed, pulling him to the rail. They had to stand close together in the crowd, but John certainly didn’t mind. 

A moment later the Kiwi guide confirmed over the loudspeaker that yes, it was a humpback whale, and that it was very special indeed to spot one on a tour, especially this time of year. Sarah looked up at John at this news, beaming. 

She had such a nice smile. He put an arm around her.

Whale-watching was the latest _experience_ Sarah had lined up for them on their trip. They’d already been sea-kayaking and jet-boating. Sarah had begun by asking John’s opinion about what they should try next, but he’d agreed so equably with everything she suggested that she was soon signing them up for whatever struck her fancy, depending on John to go along with it. 

Which he did. Luckily his bank account was in significantly better shape after the Adventure of the Blind Banker—even with the strong British Pound, adventure tourism could take its toll on the pocketbook. John was trying not to mind. He could afford it, but he had to keep reminding himself of that fact. 

Anyway, he enjoyed it all. It was fine. 

( _Fine, John?_ Sherlock’s voice, supercilious.) 

No, it was fun. Exciting, even, given a certain definition of the word. 

( _Exciting. I see.)_

Interesting. Refreshing. Pleasant. There were plenty of positive adjectives he could truthfully apply to each subsequent activity she chose, and by the fourth day he’d exhausted them all. 

***

In the hotel, nothing was awkward. It never was with Sarah, she was so easygoing. Sweet, smart, kind. A lovely woman. Just what he was looking for. Lovely.

They had separate rooms, but Sarah was getting friendlier during the day, and the goodnight kiss of the first night had become goodnight snogging by the third. On the bed. 

On the fourth night they reached the point where up to now she would gently extricate herself and ease off, and tonight she just...didn’t. 

Instead, she rolled onto her back and stretched her neck, her mouth open, inviting. She looked...lovely. _(Lovely, again. Impressive vocabulary.)_

He could see what she wanted him to do ( _Obvious),_ what she was offering, and if he was a little slow to take her up on it, well, it had been a while. He hoped she didn’t notice his slight hesitation before he dipped his head down to kiss her throat, hoped his subsequent diligence ( _Diligence?)_ enthusiasm would make up for it. Sarah was a nice woman who wanted to have sex with John, and John was pleased about it. He was. 

He was pleased, also, to find that some skills and knowledge, long disused, still had not deserted him. He knew that if he kissed Sarah’s neck and she arched into his touch, he could draw a hand up her side, and cup her breast. He did so, and she arched some more, and made a little noise. _Good_. He knew that he could stroke her now, breast and belly, up into her hair, but that he should wait a bit before he felt between her legs. He knew that he should kiss her neck and her face, and that the breathy sounds she was making were...good.

 _(Good? Really, John, your passion is inspiring.)_ This was _fine_. Lov—fine. He’d gone so long without touching anyone, that was all. It was a lot to take in. But he knew what to do, and how to do it, and when he slid an arm up behind her and pulled her body close, he did feel a spark ignite, and his body began to respond. Thank goodness.

“Oh, nice.” John whispered in her ear. “So... _nice_. You’re just...Sarah, you’re lovely.” He kissed her then, at the hollow of her jaw, and tightened his arms around her. 

She responded with a gentle hum and pressed her body against his, and he was so grateful that she’d waited until he was hard to do that, so grateful that his body had finally awoken only seconds before he’d have been caught.

Now that he was hard, he could escalate, he could fan the spark. She had pressed her body to him, so it was allowed for him to press back, to seek a little friction, a little pressure, to keep himself in the game. ( _Sport metaphors? Dull.)_ He shifted, seeking to align their hips, and her thigh brushed firmly against his erection as they moved, sending a current of pleasure through him. He sighed into the kiss and she did it again.

Things were going well, very well. Sarah was kissing him eagerly, and responding to him. She took his shirt in her two hands and rolled him on top of her, and in another moment she spread her legs a little, allowing him to feel the heat of her sex through two layers of clothes. 

This wasn’t _lovely_ anymore, this was _hot_ , he hoped she thought so too, he hoped she was enjoying herself. She certainly seemed to be, she was taking his shirt off now, all the evidence seemed to suggest… ( _Please, when did_ you _ever manage to see ALL the evidence?)_ If he could just stay focused this could go very well indeed…

He could not stay focused. His thoughts kept reading like an instruction manual (touch here, press there) or a lukewarm adjectival play-by-play (this is _good_ , this is _nice_ ), and every time the pressure on his erection was removed, he got soft. She was in her bra and knickers when she went to take his trousers off, and of course pants don’t actually hide anything...also, she was a doctor.

Of course she noticed.

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t—it’s been a really long time. Since—” Since James, which he almost said, which was unforgivable, “Since I was deployed. I—”

She _was_ a doctor, and also an extraordinarily kind person. “Don’t worry. John, really. Don’t. What do you want to do, do you want to stop, or…?”

 _God, yes_. John wanted to stop. John wanted to stop and transport himself away from here, away into his room at 221B, under his covers, with Sherlock murdering the violin downstairs. No hands on his body, no sympathetic eyes on his face. That was all he wanted. Yes, he wanted to stop. 

He said, “Of course not.” 

_(John.)_

He said, “You’re gorgeous.”

_(Don’t be an idiot.)_

He said, “I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

And he smiled at her. Then he finally, finally silenced the voice in his head and gave Sarah two solid orgasms before she rolled off him, drowsy and sated. 

Of course, that meant that there were two more attempts later in the trip until she mercifully stopped trying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can do this.

“John. We don’t have to.”

“I know, Mary. I know. I want to.”

“It’s just...you said you were ready.”

“I am. I am ready. I am. I want this.”

“Listen, I know this is hard. You’ve been so...unhappy. You’ve been grieving.”

“I know, yeah, but look, this isn’t about that.”

“You and Sherlock were so close. You’re still mourning. That’s all right. We don’t have to do this yet. Maybe you just aren’t ready.”

“Mary, this isn’t—I am, all right?”

“It has to be strange, doesn’t it, being with someone else.”

“Mary, it wasn’t like that. I told you, we weren’t—You aren’t _someone else._ I want to do this with _you._ ”

“It’s fine, John. This would be a lot easier if you were honest with yourself.”

“ _I am being honest._ Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just—I want this. Can we get on with it, please?”

“Ooh, Mr. Romantic. Sweep a girl right off her feet.”

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Kidding, John. Look, if you’re sure you want this…”

“I am. I do. I’m sure.”

“Then why don’t you let me...drive, for a bit?”

“Oh, I—uh, yeah. Yeah, all right, I guess. Yeah. Um, okay.”

“Because you like _this_ , I know you do.”

“Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

“And this…”

“Mmm, yeah.”

“And this is always a crowd-pleaser…”

“ _Crowds?_ ”

“Kidding! But it worked for you, didn’t it?”

“All right, yes. _Oh_ , that’s...that’s...”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Nice. Really nice, actually.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. But if you like that, I’m just going to try something a little bit…”

“A bit what?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be good. But also...a bit not good.”

“Oh....Uh, Mary. I—”

“ _Relax,_ John. You’re doing fine.”

“It’s just—”

“Do you want me to stop? Is that it? Giving up already?”

“No! No. No, don’t stop. I said I was ready. Keep going.”

“Then shhh. I’ll keep things simple. You liked this. Oh, you _do_ like this, don’t you? No need for anything too fancy with John Watson, is there? That’s—oh, yes, that’s right. Good. There, see? Yes, good. Oh, lovely, John. I’ll just keep…”

“Yeah, keep—”

“Ah, yeah. Now you’re really...What about if—Oh, that works too, doesn’t it? Mmm, good boy. That’s—”

“Oh, that’s...Sh-shit, that’s good. Keep going, that is—oh, _oh. Oh._ ”

“And there it is. Good. _Good,_ John. Good...There. That’s right, just rest a minute. Better?”

“Ah. Yeah, good. Um. Thanks. Thanks very much.”

“Oh, my. You’re most welcome. Don’t you have lovely manners.”

“And don’t you look pleased with yourself.”

“Well, shouldn’t I be?”

“Ha. Yes. Absolutely. Of course. Look, Mary…”

“Go on…”

“You shouldn’t...you shouldn’t have had to do that. I know it’s not...not exactly normal, all right? For me to...need that. I’m very, I’m very…”

“I agree.”

“What?”

“You were going to say that you’re very lucky to have me, and I agree.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Definitely. I am _amazing_ , John Watson, and you are _very_ lucky to have me.”

“Well, then. Um. Thank you. Again. And I...I promise I’ll do better. Next time.”

“Naturally. Next time is all about me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a soldier today.

It was early morning when John was finally deposited back at his flat. The nondescript black car was silent as it pulled up, just as the nondescript driver was silent for the whole ride. He did not respond to any of John’s questioning, and no variation on the theme of “Where the hell did they take him?” elicited any reaction. Mycroft, the arsehole, did not respond to any texts, and did not pick up his phone.

In the dull grey light of the winter dawn, John stood outside the row of houses and stared at his own front door and missed the war all over again.

 _Well, it was never going to be easy._ No, but he hadn’t been expecting Sherlock to raise the stakes yet again, and then be whisked away. Not that Sherlock could help him here, of course. There was a plan, and John knew what it was. His part, anyway. There was nothing left for them to say to each other, but it would help to know where he was. To think of him. 

Oh, god, no. He couldn’t do _that._ Not with what he had to do next. 

Well, he couldn’t stand out here and wait for the sun to rise. He squared his shoulders, sniffed once, and opened the gate.

 _Into battle_.

***

The day was...fine. There were exclamations and recriminations to be got through, with plenty of _how could you let him drug me, think of the baby_ , and also, _I was so worried_ , from both of them, and perhaps Mary’s was even sincere, who knew? And then the requisite _I know, I know, I’m sorry_ , from John. (How quickly everything was back to being his fault.)

Then night came. 

“Not sure I want you back in the bed, to be honest.” Mary came out of the bathroom and pulled back the covers—on the right side, which was her side now, apparently. “Got kind of used to it just being me, my pillows, and my gigantic belly.”

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa…?” _One can only hope_.

She raised an eyebrow. “Your line is, ‘Your belly isn’t gigantic, darling. You look beautiful.’ Try again.”

 _Jesus._ He used to think she was so cheeky and charming. He forced a smile. “Of course, of course your belly isn’t gigantic. I thought you were joking. And you do look beautiful. Healthy.”

“If you say _glowing_ , you _will_ sleep on the sofa.”

“Right. But you look fine.” God, he was bollocksing this up. _Pull it together, Watson._ There was no way she was going to believe this. “You look…I missed you.” Not his first lie, not by a long shot.

Mary smiled at him archly from her nest of pillows. “Are you getting in, then?”

John looked at her for a long moment. “Are you _sure_ you want me?” There. A reason for his hesitation. “I’d understand if—”

“John. It’s been ages, and my hormones have been all over the show. We did the big emotional scene at the Holmes’. Do we need another one?”

“God, no.” He didn’t think he could manage that level of doublespeak again. “No, definitely not.”

“Good then.” She nestled back, smugly, into the pillows. “Now. Your wife has needs. Get in here and see to them.”

John was sure he was not imagining the challenge in her voice. He snarled, “ _All right then,”_ and felt a familiar smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Anger and arousal were not so different. If she kept antagonizing him then maybe he could do this. He fixed his eyes on her as he crawled onto the bed. “You asked for it.”

Mary giggled coyly as he pressed her back into the mattress. “Ooh, Doctor Watson, please be gentle with me.” 

“Not a chance.” (The first truthful thing he’d said so far.) He wanted to rip that smile off her face with his canines. Instead he ground his mouth down onto hers, open, harsh lips instead of the teeth he wanted to use, marginally more gentle. With his hands he gripped her shoulders, hard, to stop himself from gripping her throat.

WIth his mouth over hers she couldn’t talk, thank god, and the only sound she made against his lips was one of mild surprise tinged with amusement. _She’s buying it_ , he thought dimly, driving his tongue into her mouth in short, hard thrusts. 

He had to release his fingers, or he’d leave bruises. Instead he let his hands rove, down her arms to her wrists, up her sides to her very full breasts. She allowed it, returning the thrusts of his tongue and humming at his intensity.

She did protest once, when he squeezed a breast too hard, tearing her face away from his to gasp at the rough treatment. “Christ, John! I’m thirty-eight weeks pregnant!”

“Sorry,” he muttered, insincerely, as he transferred his grip to her hip. But he did take a mental step back. He couldn’t use rage to replace desire. He couldn’t actually kill her with his bare hands. _Yes, I could._ All right, he could, he _could_ , but he absolutely _wasn’t going to._

There was a plan. He didn’t know the whole of it, but there was a plan, and the plan required that he do this. And what did John ever do when there was a plan but go along with it, whatever the cost to himself, which almost certainly wasn’t accounted for when the plan was made? _Do and die, Watson._

John had a box for that. A whole warehouse. He was a soldier and a surgeon and he knew his place; he would never have presumed to name it a palace. It was just a pile of dusty crates, firmly nailed shut. What was one more?

Besides, there was the baby. John reined in his hatred until it felt a little like the kind of fierce tenderness he might feel for someone he loved, and had been betrayed by, and had forgiven. (Whoever that might be.) He let his thoughts go blurry and looked at her body as if at a photograph, and finally felt his own body stir. 

It took a few false starts—he’d never had to accommodate a pregnant belly before—but in the end they found a way that worked, with her astride him. She took her pleasure from his body, and he only needed to hold her up, and push back against her, and it was fine that his eyes were mostly closed. And if, when he approached his climax, his short thrusts were harder than he meant, and if the sound he made as he came was more a howl and a sob than a moan, well, it had been a long time for them.

She laid her head on his shoulder, afterwards, and snuggled in. She sighed peacefully. “That was lovely, darling. I was beginning to think you’d never come around.”

“Well.” He settled his arm around her shoulders. What could he say to that? “You know me.”

It was the biggest lie of all, but she only smiled as she drifted off. “I do, yes,” she murmured, chilling him to his very bones, as in her belly his daughter turned over against his side.

It should have been so beautiful. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All John has ever wanted is to save Sherlock. He never could.

“John.”

 _Oh god._ It was Sherlock, of course it bloody was. What were an angry letter and a locked door to Sherlock Holmes? John needed him _out._ “What the hell are you doing here?”

Sherlock, having walked through the (locked) front door bold as brass, now hovered by the door, drawn up tall in the entranceway. He looked at John a long moment, then said, “You needed me.”

 _I always need you_. No, no, _angry._ Ignore the little bubbles of joy that Sherlock had come for him, again. Angry. “Oh, yes?” John practically snarled. “That’s what it means, is it, when someone sends you a letter that says _you’ve done enough damage, stay out of my life_?”

Sherlock blinked once, slowly. “When it’s you, yes.” He frowned then, as if waiting for John to explain what he’d got wrong. _That look._

“Nope.” John closed his eyes. “Nope, in this case, it means _stay out of my life._ Exactly what it said.”

“That’s not what it said.”

“No? You reckon not? I guess I wasn’t clear enough. Let me write you another one.” Jesus, this was so much more painful in person. Why couldn’t he have just stayed away?

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Still confused and a little lost. “John, I don’t know what you’re trying to do…”

John had never hated himself so much. He shouted, “ _I’m trying to get you to stay the hell away from me.”_ Swift and final. John was a coward, but at least he made himself watch Sherlock’s face when he said it.

So he saw the flash of hurt, which he’d been expecting, but then saw it slide away as Sherlock’s mouth and eyes went wide— _Oh!_ —and he heard the sharp gasp of realisation, so familiar and so desperately dear.

Sherlock stepped away from the wall, his face clear, his eyes darting, his body thrumming with discovery.

 _No. No, no. Oh, no._ “Oh, no.” John held up a warning finger. “No, Sherlock. No. I don’t know what you think you’ve figured out—”

“—Oh, John!”

“—but stop this, stop it right—”

“It’s so clear! How could I have—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sher—”

“—missed it. Of course I should have known you’d be _noble_ , John, but this, oh, _this_ —”

“Shut up, _shut up_ , I’m not fucking _noble_ , you arsehole, I’m a fucking mess, I’m _shit_ , I’m an utter—”

“At first I thought—”

“—fucking _waste of space_ , why won’t you—”

“—maybe you didn’t trust me with, you didn’t want me around Rosie—”

“Not want you—Are you fucking insane? I’d fucking _give her to you_ and walk off the goddamn earth. I don’t want _myself_ around Rosie, she deserves so much better, and you, too, you deserve—”

“Ah.” Sherlock ceased his pacing and drew up, suddenly still, and rested a steady gaze on John.

 _Shit._ John fell silent. There was nothing for him to say. He’d set himself one task, one simple task, and he’d failed. _As usual_. He let his breath out and felt his shoulders slump.

 _One more try_. “Sherlock. I’m sorry. You can’t know how sorry. But I really need you to leave, and not come back, and...I don’t know, delete me. You’re—”

“I’m what, John?” Sherlock was listening intently, for once.

“You’re in danger around me, always. I’ve ruined everything else I love, everything, and I can’t—”

“ _What_ , John?”

He raised his eyes. “I—I can’t save you any other way.” There. And also, “Please, Sherlock.”

There was silence, then, settling over them, filling the space between them. Sherlock had no immediate reply, but he stood there and searched John’s face. John forced himself, with difficulty, to return his gaze; perhaps that way he would read the sincerity of John’s plea.

But Sherlock, far from turning to leave, held John’s eyes. “John,” he said. “John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John.” His searching expression transformed into one of unspeakable tenderness. “Do you really not know?”

It was too much. That look, from those eyes. John would be utterly undone. He closed his eyes. “Know what.”

A rustle of fabric and a shift of the air warned John that Sherlock was moving, and he opened his eyes in alarm, in time to see Sherlock stepping right into his space, still with the same look of deep compassion. John felt his eyes go wide, felt the panic begin to bubble in his gut, and wondered frantically why he was still standing there instead of backing away, instead of fleeing altogether.

The next moment, Sherlock raised one reassuring hand and let it rest on the side of John’s neck, curling his fingers around his nape and letting them stroke over the fine hairs that grew there. John’s panic subsided under his touch, but _no, no,_ this was wrong, he was supposed to be sending him away, protecting him from the trainwreck that was John Watson, not leaning into his gentle palm, not drawing in great draughts of his warm breath.

And then Sherlock kissed him. Soft and full and tender.

And about as far opposite as it was possible to get from what John actually deserved. He jerked back. “No, I—Sherlock, you can’t, you can’t mean, you can’t…” _Push him away. Do it now_. But John couldn’t force himself any further away from him. “You can’t want this.”

Sherlock’s hand stayed his neck, steadfast. “I do, I do want. I want to kiss you, and I want to touch you, and I want you to stop sending me away.” He closed his eyes and let his forehead come to rest on John’s, brought his other hand up to rest just above the first, cupping the back of John’s head, cradling him like he was something of value.

Which he knew only too well he was not. But. _Now. Do it now._ John squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Sherlock_.”

“John. _John._ Let me—let it happen.”

And when Sherlock’s mouth met his again, he did.

At first, letting it happen was all John could do. He could stand there and let Sherlock kiss him, and that was all, and only because he was utterly unable to draw himself away. He could let Sherlock kiss him with large, gentle hands curled around his head and into his hair. He could let Sherlock kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, and when his body went weak, he could let Sherlock wrap his arms around his body and hold him up, support him, shore up his crumbling walls, rebuild him.

Sherlock was letting him know what he wanted, Sherlock was letting him know what he needed from John. _Stop sending me away,_ he’d said. It was not at all what John thought Sherlock ought to want but then John had shown himself time and again to be completely unqualified to make good decisions when it came to Sherlock so maybe it was time to just...give in. And give him everything he wanted.

It was, after all, exactly everything John wanted too.

It was...soothing, being touched by Sherlock. Not mad or frenetic the way he would have thought, _had_ thought, the many times he’d pictured this. John felt... _gentled_. John felt safe. Which was—he felt a familiar stab of shame—laughable, since it had never been _John_ who wasn’t safe with _Sherlock_.

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ push Sherlock away, make him leave, so instead he stood there, and accepted his kisses and the caresses of his hands, caring, cradling, until he felt so...so precious that he forgot to hate himself.

When Sherlock stepped away, it was only to take John by the hand and lead him up the stairs where he unwrapped him like a gift, and John forgot to wonder who would want a gift like him, and let himself be opened.

***

Much later, when they lay together, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock drew his fingers back and forth over the skin on John’s shoulder, skirting the scar, and said, as before, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what,” John asked again, somewhat hoarsely.

Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “You’ve already saved me. You saved me...a long time ago. And then...you just kept saving me.”

“That’s not—” _That’s not what happened at all._ The fight had gone right out of John, but he protested faintly where he lay. “It was you, it was you. You did that. You kept—everything you did was for me. You kept saving me, and I kept hurting you. It’s all I’ve ever done.” He glanced up into Sherlock’s face, wondering how the genius could have got it so wrong.

But Sherlock said, “Oh, John, no.” He met John’s gaze with a mix of affection and incredulity. “I could never have been that person if it hadn’t been for you. You...you taught me to be the man you already thought I was. Wisest and best. Most human. That was all you.”

“No, that’s—you _are_. You’re—you’re…” John fought back a yawn. He should be feeling more upset, he thought, but he was so comfortable.

Sherlock smiled. “If I am, if I am _now_ , it’s because of you.”

John shook his head and rolled away. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. “Even if that’s...even if that’s true. Sherlock, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve done to you...Sherlock, you shouldn’t, I can’t...How do you know I won’t do it again?” He raised himself on one elbow, and looked at Sherlock’s face. He had never been more honest or sincere than when he said, “You’re a good man, Sherlock, you always have been. And that’s why I didn’t, I couldn’t—because, really, _what kind of man am I_?”

Sherlock rolled to his side and smiled at him, and the compassion in his face made John’s heart ache. He said, “I know what _I_ think you are. Wisest and best…”

“No—” John groaned halfheartedly and scrubbed his hand over his eyes, into his hair.

“...and _human_.” Sherlock reached out his hand and stroked a finger down John’s face. “And human, John.”

It felt so good. John closed his eyes. “No, I—no, stop. I’m not. I’m not that guy. I don’t, I don’t know how to be.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, trailing his fingers along his jaw, “Let me teach you.”

And John was tired, tired of arguing, tired of fighting for the opposite of what he wanted. He looked at Sherlock’s twist of a smile and just...let go. When Sherlock brought their mouths together, their kiss was warm and peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit to having seen Series 4. I've used some lines from it, and I've alluded to some of its content in very, very vague terms. Partly this is because I have not been interested in re-watching it, and partly it's just because it muddles things up unnecessarily and this is the story I wanted to tell, and partly it's because I write slow and I started this well before there WAS a Series 4.


End file.
